


Make A Life With Me

by sospes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Potion/Spell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22417981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Geralt gets dosed with a love spell, and Jaskier bears the brunt of his affections.Yennefer is unimpressed. Ciri is just done with both of them.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 181
Kudos: 5077
Collections: Just.... So cute...





	Make A Life With Me

**Author's Note:**

> I like to alternate writing angst and heartbreak with writing fics that are so fluffy they'll rot your damn teeth.
> 
> Edit: There is now a translation of this into Russian available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9309190)!
> 
> Edit: There is now a podfic of this story available [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163975), read by reena_jenkins!

Yennefer is woken by the sound of giggling. 

She frowns into the goose-feather pillow in the darkness, then lifts her head, listening. It’s not Ciri, she’d recognise the girl’s voice anywhere—not to mention feel the thrum of her power—but as far as she can tell, Ciri is still fast asleep in the room just along the corridor’s from hers. No, the giggling sounds like it’s coming from downstairs – which in and of itself isn’t necessarily a bad sign, because both Geralt and Jaskier can cross her wardings without setting off any alarms. Although she’s heard Jaskier giggle before and this doesn’t sound like him. 

Yennefer is intrigued, and also annoyingly by this point wide awake. She draws back the covers with a tight sigh and pulls a silken robe on over her usual nighttime attire of nothing, then sets a flame dancing above her fingertips and leaves her room. 

A brief pause by Ciri’s door is enough to confirm her first thought—the girl is asleep and dreaming of Cintra burning, as she does every night—and she continues on down the stairs. Yennefer keeps her steps light and the flame in her hand burning low, just in case: it’s not like she’s worried because she’s more than dangerous enough even in her nightclothes, but she doesn’t just have to think about herself, now. She has someone who relies on her. 

And, she reflects as she comes to the bottom of the stairs, who relies on these two idiots, as well. 

Jaskier is standing in the middle of the little house’s ground floor, hands on his hips, hair dishevelled and exasperated expression mapped across his face. He glances up at Yennefer, then spreads his arms, indicates the mess he’s managed to get himself into. “Can you help?” he asks, then yelps as the right hand of a large, manly Witcher grabs at his arse. 

The rest of the Witcher is currently sitting on the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him, head leant against Jaskier’s thigh – _giggling_. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken and all those other titles that Jaskier spouts songs about at every conceivable opportunity, is giggling like a child at nothing in particular, lips split in an unashamed, unconsidered smile. 

Yennefer blinks. “What did you do to him?” 

“Me?” Jaskier asks, outraged. “How would _I_ do this?” Geralt giggles again, and squeezes the handful of Jaskier’s arse he hasn’t let go of. Jaskier winces, reaches around, and carefully removes the hand. “Stop it,” he says firmly, but Geralt doesn’t seem to listen. He just starts running his hand up the inside of Jaskier’s thigh instead, and Jaskier’s face takes on the kind of pained expression that Geralt is usually wearing. 

If it wasn’t disturbing her sleep, Yennefer would be finding this pretty funny. She flicks her fingers and lights kindle themselves in the lanterns around the walls, then she folds her arms and steps closer. Meanwhile, Geralt has taken to nuzzling Jaskier’s knee. “I thought you two were hunting for another few days,” she says. “Some wraith?”

“Werewolf, actually,” Jaskier answers, detaching Geralt’s fingers from the laces of his trousers. “That was fine. Straightforward. Geralt dispatched it, I got some lovely details for a new song I’m working in. And then we collected the payment and went for a drink. _Geralt_.” He removes Geralt’s hand from underneath his shirt with a distinct air of this not having been the first time he’s had to do that tonight. “I’m assuming someone dosed him with something,” he says, “given this… unusual behaviour.” 

“Are you saying that Geralt doesn’t usually rub his cheek against your thigh like that?” 

Geralt giggles at that, and grabs firmly at Jaskier’s groin. Jaskier goes bright red and hisses “ _Geralt!_ ” in a voice that Yennefer isn’t going to forget in a while. She takes pity on him and crouches down next to Geralt, seizes his chin and turns him to face her. The giggle dies on Geralt’s lips as his attention is dragged away from Jaskier – and that’s not all. His lips draw back from his teeth, his whole demeanour changes, and he _snarls_. Yennefer isn’t scared of Geralt, far from it, but she drops her touch, lets him go back to shoving his face into Jaskier’s knee, and the giggle comes back pretty much immediately. 

Jaskier’s looking at her, flushed and embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says flatly. “I found that out at the tavern.”

“Interesting,” Yennefer says, standing up slowly. “So if he thinks that someone’s trying to take you away from him, he gets violent?” 

“Pretty much.” 

Yennefer’s lips twist. “How many people did he beat up?” 

“Three,” Jaskier sighs. “And he sort of… menaced a horse.” 

Yennefer looks at him quizzically.

“Don’t ask,” Jaskier says. 

“When did the giggling start?” Yennefer asks. 

Jaskier wearily bats Geralt’s hand away from his arse again. “When we left the tavern,” he says, but there’s a faint awkwardness in his voice that Yennefer could swear didn’t come from the arse-grabbing. “In the tavern, mainly violence. After, giggling.” He rubs at his face, runs his hands through his hair, then yelps again as Geralt’s hands go straight for his balls. “I really can’t tell if he’s trying to turn me on or he’s just laughing at how tiny my body is compared to his.” 

“It’s probably some kind of love spell,” Yennefer says. “Doesn’t seem too serious. Should wear off in a few hours.” She can taste the remnants of the magic, now that she’s thinking about it, and it’s not strong, nothing too complicated. Nothing dangerous. She can go back to bed without feeling too guilty about it. 

“A few hours?” Jaskier asks, a little strangled. “Are you telling me I’m going to have him pawing at me like this until the sun comes up?” 

Yennefer shrugs. “The other option is that you let him get on with whatever he wants to do,” she says. “The point of a love spell is that it gets two people into bed. Let him get you into bed, and the spell will have run its course.” 

“Not your best suggestion,” Jaskier says shortly, as Geralt’s hand runs up his inner thigh again. 

“Isn’t it?” Yennefer asks, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve seen how you look at him, bard. I know this isn’t the first time you’ve thought about it.” She shrugs. “Could be a good way to scratch that itch under your skin.” 

Jaskier’s expression shutters for a moment. “Not like this,” he says eventually. “Not when he’s only interested because he’s under a damn spell.” 

Yennefer raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier removes Geralt’s hand from his crotch again. “I never took you for a romantic,” she says. 

“Have you _heard_ my songs?” Jaskier asks, a little incredulous. 

“I try not to,” Yennefer says, and it’s a lazy jibe but she’s tired, okay? “And I’ve also heard enough about you to know that you’re more likely to fuck whatever willing piece of flesh presents itself to you than woo a sought-after lover with sweetmeats and roses.” 

There’s a brief flash of hurt in Jaskier’s eyes. “Well,” he says. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” His hand settles lightly on Geralt’s head and he runs his fingers through his silver-white hair – and when he does, all of a sudden Geralt stops giggling, stops grabbing, settles his head against Jaskier’s thigh and closes his eyes with a sigh. 

Jaskier looks up at Yennefer, surprise in his eyes. 

“There you go,” Yennefer says, pulling her robe tighter around herself and turning back towards the stairs. “Stroke his hair until he falls asleep. That avoids the grabbing problem.” 

“Here?” Jaskier asks plaintively. 

“Fine, get him upstairs to a bed, then,” Yennefer says. 

“But he won’t move,” Jaskier whines, “and he’s way too big for me to move on my own.” He looks up at her with shining eyes. “Lend a poor molested fellow a hand?” 

Yennefer pretends to consider it for a moment. “No,” she says eventually. “It’s funnier this way.” 

She goes back upstairs to the tune of Jaskier’s frankly inspired hissed insults, and goes to bed. She’s asleep in moments. 

Ciri wakes early in the morning, the light streaming in around the edges of the curtains in her little room. She stays curled up in ball under the covers for half an hour or so, trying not to think about her dreams, then finally gets up when her stomach rumbles its hunger. She pulls a blanket around her shoulders and patters down the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she goes, and then stops again at the bottom. “Hello!” she says brightly. “You’re back!”

Jaskier is sitting propped up against the table leg, Geralt asleep at his side, his head in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier looks up at Ciri’s entrance and smiles a tired smile. “Hey, Ciri,” he says. “Sorry we were away so long.” He glances down at Geralt, frowns, then looks back up at her and points at his bag, left next to the front door. “Grab my pack for me, please?” 

Ciri does as he asks, handing him the bag. She notices as she sits down next to him that one of his hands is stroking Geralt’s hair gently, repetitively, like he’s been doing it for a long time now. “Is Geralt okay?” she asks, as Jaskier digs around in his bag with his free hand. 

“He’s fine,” Jaskier sighs. “Just a minor spell, I think. Yennefer says he’ll be okay once it wears off.”

“Does stroking his hair help?” Ciri asks. 

“Apparently,” Jaskier answers drily. 

Ciri nods. “After my parents died, my grandmother would stroke my hair until I slept,” she says, and if it hurts to talk about her family, it doesn’t tear her apart as much as it once did. “It’s nice.” 

Jaskier is looking at her with sadness and affection in his eyes. “I brought you something,” he says, handing her a small wrapped parcel. “I think Geralt might have… squashed it a bit, but they should still be good.” 

Ciri unwraps the parcel and finds a small handful of honeyed figs, a little misshapen but still fragrant and sweet. She shoves one in her mouth immediately and licks the honey off her fingers, then remembers her manners enough to say, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier answers, and reaches out to tuck a strand of her behind her ear. “How are your lessons going? Could you beat up the big old White Wolf here yet?”

In his current state, Ciri reckons even _Jaskier_ could probably beat up Geralt without too much worry. “Yennefer says I’m progressing well,” she answers. “But I still can’t control it.” Her lip twists. “I tried to make a rabbit come to me yesterday. But I just killed it instead.” 

Jaskier cups her cheek. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, comforting and warm and gentle. “It took me years to learn to play the lute, and at the beginning the only sound I could make was a twanging mess. And I know it’s not the same, but what you need to do is practice. You’ll get there, I promise.” 

Ciri nods, and eats another fig, then looks down at Geralt. “What kind of spell was it?” she asks. 

Jaskier blushes a little. “Ah, Yennefer said maybe a love spell,” he answers. “I’m not sure love is the right word, though. Maybe…” He seems to be struggling for words, which is rare for Jaskier so Ciri settles in to watch. “I guess you might say affection. Or possibly annoyance, I haven’t figured that out yet.” 

“Like how you annoy him because you care about him?” Ciri asks. 

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. “Now, I made you promise not to repeat that,” he says. “I told you that as a secret.” 

“I’m only telling _you_ ,” Ciri points out. 

Jaskier’s shoulders sag, just a little. He’s still stroking Geralt’s hair. “I suppose you are,” he says. “Well, anyway. It should wear off soon, I hope, and then he’ll be back to his usual grumpy self.” 

“You should tell him how you feel,” Ciri says, finishing off the last fig. 

“Ah, no, I don’t think that would go very well,” Jaskier says. “He likes Yennefer, remember? Not me. I’m just his friend.” 

“I think you’re wrong about that,” Ciri answers. She might be young, she knows she’s still young, but she’s more perceptive than they think she is. She enjoys it, actually, enjoys being underestimated – because it means that they lower their guard around her, all three of them, Yennefer and Geralt and Jaskier. It means she knows them, really knows them. And that’s comforting for her, after everything. It’s comforting for her to know that they’re real. 

“Is that right?” Jaskier asks, eyebrow raised. 

Ciri nods. “Geralt doesn’t watch Yennefer like he watches you,” she says. “He’s always looking for you, making sure you’re there. He doesn’t do that for Yennefer.” 

“He’s just making sure I haven’t got myself into trouble again,” Jaskier says. “He’s had to rescue me so many times that I stopped counting.”

Ciri shakes her head. “He watches you when you sing,” she says. “Like the evening before you left, last week. You sat by the fire and sang to me, and he sat at the bottom of the stairs and watched you.” 

Jaskier frowns. “Did he?” 

Ciri just nods. She remembers it vividly, the sound of the lute, the richness of Jaskier’s voice, the way the shadows danced across Geralt’s face, how the firelight caught in his golden eyes. It was like how her grandmother used to look at Eist, before the fall. Ciri’s heart twists, and all of a sudden she doesn’t have any words anymore. 

Head pillowed in Jaskier’s lap, Geralt stirs. He blinks his eyes open slowly, hazily, briefly focusing on Ciri before awareness comes flooding back and he sits bolt upright, staring at Jaskier with a look of horror on his face. Ciri sees Jasker’s startled, crest-fallen look, and then he says, “Morning, Geralt! And how are you feeling today?”

Geralt just stares at him silently a moment longer, then gets to his feet and storms out of the house without another word.

Ciri and Jaskier look at each other. “See?” Jaskier says, after a moment. “Not exactly the actions of someone who’s madly in love with me.” 

“He’s Geralt,” Ciri points out. “He’s bad at emotions.” 

Jaskier laughs. “True enough,” he says, then slowly heaves himself to his feet. “ _Ow_. My legs have gone to sleep, this _hurts_.” He pauses for a second, stretching out his legs, then offers Ciri another smile. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go upstairs and try to get some rest. That big lout kept me awake all night.”

Ciri watches him go upstairs, glances out the door after Geralt, then decides she has better things to do than try to talk some sense into them. She finishes licking honey off the wrapper of the parcel Jaskier gave her, then sits at the table and tries to focus on lifting a pebble with her powers. 

When Jaskier wakes, it’s mid-afternoon and Geralt is sitting silently on the chair in the corner of his room. His golden eyes are closed and his face is unlined in that particular peacefulness that accompanies his meditation, and Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate the calm. It’s much better than the giggling, that’s for sure. That was just downright unsettling. 

Jaskier shifts himself up against the headboard, knowing that he won’t have to do much to rouse Geralt from his reverie. He pulls the blankets up around his chest and watches as Geralt’s eyes flick open and land on him, alert, wary. 

“Hello again,” Jaskier says, throaty with sleep. “Now, before you say anything else, please warn me if you’re about to start giggling again. I need to emotionally prepare myself.” 

Geralt’s expression is thunderous. “It was a mistake,” he says gruffly. “At the tavern.” 

Jaskier frowns. “Which part?” he asks. “Punching the baker? Or leaving this on my neck?” He points to a particularly pronounced bruise that’s edged by just the faintest memories of teeth.

“The potion,” Geralt says, clearly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t meant for me. The barmaid put it in the drink that was intended for a girl she wanted to bed. Instead, the tankards got mixed up and I drank it.” 

“I guess that’s a relief,” Jaskier says, plucking awkwardly at the blankets in his lap. “An honest mistake, no harm done.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, low and dark. “I remember everything.”

Jaskier swallows. “You do, do you?”

Geralt’s jaw is tight. “I pushed you up against a wall behind the stables,” he says, voice full of disgust, “and rutted against your thigh like a beast in heat until I came. I _marked_ you. I _bruised_ you.” He’s breathing hard, Jaskier notices. He’s furious with himself. “I held you in place by your throat so you couldn’t leave,” Geralt says, bitterness thick in his voice. “I forced you to let me use you like that. To abuse you.”

Jaskier sighs. “Honestly, the giggling and the handsiness that came after was worse,” he says, but Geralt just glares at him so he figures that’s not that helpful. “Geralt, you were drugged. Bewitched. Bespelled, whatever, you weren’t yourself. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does,” Geralt bites out. 

“It _doesn’t_ ,” Jaskier insists. 

“It does,” Geralt says again, rushing over the words like if he doesn’t get them out now, he never will, “because the barmaid told me that the only reason it _worked_ is because I already wanted to.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

Geralt won’t look at him. “It only works on those who already have… feelings,” he says, spitting out the world ‘feelings’ like it’s mortally offended him. 

Jaskier takes a breath. “Are you saying you have feelings for me?” 

Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“You fucking…” Jaskier trails off, speechless. “What the _fuck_ , Geralt?” 

Geralt looks up, clearly confused. “Jaskier?”

“Come over here and kiss me right now,” Jaskier orders, not expecting it to work but still being disappointed when Geralt doesn’t move. “You _ass_. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Geralt seems to be getting the picture. He frowns at Jaskier, shoulders tight. “You didn’t exactly seem interested,” he says roughly. 

“I didn’t?” Jaskier barks. “I followed you around the continent for literally _decades_.” 

“The Countess de Stael—”

“Gave me a lot of money and fancy people to perform for,” Jaskier interrupts. “And also, sure, we had a lot of sex.” 

Geralt’s eyebrows rise. “Exactly.”

“But, gods help me,” Jaskier says, “she was never a scruffy Witcher who somehow _always_ smells of onions and abandoned me on a mountaintop because of his own emotional repression.” 

Geralt frowns. “Is that supposed to clear things up?” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says shortly, “if you don’t get in this bed right now and kiss me, and then _maybe_ also fuck me if you feel like it, I swear I will let the next werewolf eat you.” 

Something that can only be described as heat kindles in Geralt’s gaze. “I’m usually the one stopping the werewolf eating you,” he says, getting to his feet, stalking towards the bed. 

Jaskier’s heart thuds harder in his chest. “Don’t be so pedantic,” he says, but then Geralt’s kissing him and it’s sort of perfect and he doesn’t really have any more words to say. 

Downstairs, Ciri looks up as another loud thud sounds though the house. She wrinkles her nose, then looks back at Yennefer. “Do they have to be so loud?” she asks. 

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “At least they’re not just moping after each other silently anymore,” she says. “It was getting irritating.” She picks up a stalk of dried yarrow. “Now, you need to pay attention to this part,” she says, and carefully strips away three of the dried petals. 

Upstairs, there’s a thump and a surprisingly musical moan. 

Yennefer flicks her fingers once, and the noise disappears. At Ciri’s questioning look, she says, “Silencing spell. They can make as much noise as they like and we won’t hear a thing.” 

Ciri nods, smiles, and bends over to study the yarrow petals closer.


End file.
